CHAPTER 10.
Back to The Divorced Wife
From eleven o'clock on the next day, even until the sun went down, did Mrs. Waverly sit at the half-curtained parlor window, vainly looking for the appearance of Alice with the children. The girl had not promised to come, even alone, until the evening of the following day; yet, for all this, the mother's eager desire filled her mind with a vague expectation. There she sat, gazing now dreamily forth, and now eagerly listening to approaching footsteps, or bending to catch a glance at the new forms every moment appearing.
"Dinner is ready," said Mrs. Grafton, coming to her side about one o'clock.
"Thank you," returned Mrs. Waverly, looking up to her, with a forced smile. "But I feel no desire for anything just now."
"O, but that won't do, ma'am," said Mrs. Grafton earnestly. "The body must have food. Come, if you only take a few mouthfuls."
"Indeed, Mrs. Grafton, it's of no use for me to go to the table. I have not the least appetite."
"You will get sick," returned the kind-hearted woman. "Come, if you only take a cup of tea. That will be better than nothing."
Mrs. Waverly shook her head, and then leaned close to the window, in order to get a few yards greater range of vision.
"Surely," said Mrs. Grafton, "you are not in expectation of seeing Alice?"
Mrs. Waverly sighed heavily, but made no reply.
"If she comes at all today, it will not be earlier than evening."
Mrs. Waverly sighed again.
"Come," urged Mrs. Grafton. "You must eat something. You will make yourself sick."
But Mrs. Waverly sat immovable.
Constrained, at last, to leave her, Mrs. Grafton retired, and alone partook of the dinner she had prepared.
The hours passed on, and still the mother sat by the window, looking forth and listening, even until the twilight came, casting its shadows upon her heart. Vainly and unreasonably as she had hoped, hope still clung to her, and she remained at the window until the darkness came down, and she could no longer distinguish the features of those who were passing.
Slowly, her heart feeling like lead in her bosom, she then arose, and went up to her own room. She was completely exhausted, both in mind and body; so much so, that she had little more strength left than enabled her to reach the bed, upon which she sank down with a heavy groan.
Mrs. Grafton came in soon after, with a light.
"Shall I bring you a cup of tea?" said she, in a kind voice, as she bent over, and laid her hand upon her forehead, that was covered with a cold and clammy sweat.
There was no reply.
"Mrs. Waverly!"
Twice the name was pronounced before she made any response. "You must strive after a better self-control, my dear madam!" the kind Mrs. Grafton said to her in an earnest, affectionate manner. "I do not wonder at the impatience of your heart; but your reason must tell you that its indulgence is all wrong. As for the return of Alice today, you should not have thought of it for a moment. She told you not to expect her."
"I know, I know, but — "
Mrs. Waverly rose up, and pushed back from her face, with both of her hands, the hair that had fallen over it.
There was a brief silence, when she added, with a measure of calmness —
"I know, but I could not help feeling that she would be here, and bring with her my children."
"Impossible, Mrs. Waverly."
"She could have done it so easily."
"But she told you that she would not be here until tomorrow evening."
"I know — I know. But then I have felt all the day as if she must relent. As if sympathy for me would work in her another purpose." Mrs. Grafton shook her head.
"Ah!" sighed the unhappy mother," there is some change in Alice. I did not expect this. I thought she would be true to me, and me only. That she would go through the fire itself to serve me."
"And so she will, Mrs. Waverly."
"I don't know. I'm afraid not."
"You wrong both her and yourself," said Mrs. Grafton, firmly. "Alice has fully explained her position, and she is right. There is no defect to you. She only asks to be true to herself."
Mrs. Waverly did not answer, but relapsed into a state of deep abstraction.
After much persuasion, she was induced to take a cup of tea, and eat a small piece of toast.
For a good portion of the time that passed, until the arrival of ten o'clock took away all hope, did Mrs. Waverly move uneasily about her room, hearkening towards the street door, and momently in expectation of the appearance of Alice. But she came not.
The day that followed, was passed by Mrs. Waverly as this had been, sitting by the window, and looking out for the appearance of Alice and her children. But, hour after hour went gliding by; and the forms she so earnestly desired to see, did not bless her sight. The shadowy twilight came again, oppressing her with gloom and disappointment; and she turned, weeping, from her place at the window, and, went sad and almost hopeless to her room. Against all the suggestions of reason, she had persisted in believing that Alice would bring the children to see her on that day. Mrs. Grafton came to her, and sought to comfort and inspire her with hope; but her words were of no avail.
"Alice will be here tonight," said she, confidently.
"I do not believe it," replied Mrs. Waverly, with a bitterness of expression that showed the state of her feelings. "She has proved false to me. She has gone over to the other side."
"No — no — no!" quickly answered Mrs. Grafton. "To say that, is to wrong one who is, at this time, your best friend. Alice is not false to you. She will be here tonight."
Mrs. Waverly shook her head. But, even as she did so, she startled to hear the street door open and shut quickly. A moment, and feet were heard upon the stairs; then her room door was thrown open, and Alice stood before her.
"O, Alice!" Fell from the lips of the excited woman.
Alice seemed slightly agitated, and breathed quickly. But this arose, in part, from having walked rapidly.
"I expected you before," said Mrs. Waverly.
"I could not come earlier," replied the girl.
The eyes of Mrs. Waverly were upon her face with an eager look, which sought to read therein all that her heart wished to know.
"My children," at length she said. "My children, Alice! What of them?"
"They are well," replied the girl, a slight embarrassment visible in her manner.
"O, why did you not bring them here today! I sat at the window, hour after hour, expecting their appearance every moment; until I grew sick at last. Alice — Alice! How could you forbear this?"
Alice made no answer. But there was a troubled expression on her face.
"But, tell me about them, Alice! O, tell me about them!" said the mother, her voice changing. "Your eyes have looked upon them; you have held them in your arms. Sweet Ada! How is she — how is my angel child!"
"She is well — very well."
"Do you think she remembers me?"
"O, yes," replied Alice. "I'm certain of it."
"You are! Did she speak of me?"
"Yes."
"Alice!" Mrs. Waverly grasped the arm of the girl, who was standing beside her.
"She has not forgotten her mother, nor ceased to love her," said Alice, slowly.
"What did she say of me, Alice? Did you mention to her my name?"
The girl shook her hand.
"She spoke of me, herself?"
"Yes. She remembered me; and it was but natural for her to think of you when I was present with her. If she remembered me — then how much more so her mother. O, yes; she remembers you still, and her heart is yearning to be with you."
"My child! My child!" exclaimed Mrs. Waverly, clasping her hands together, and glancing upwards. "And what of Herbert?" she added; "does he also remember his mother?"
"He has not spoken of you."
The mother was disappointed. A quick change went over her countenance: and, she said, with a huskiness in her voice —
"They have poisoned his young thoughts against me. They have obliterated his mother's image from his mind, as a thing too vile to rest there. But, Ada spoke of me? Ada loves me still?"
"O, yes! Ada's heart is with you."
"She spoke of me! O, Alice! Tell me what she said."
"She asked why you didn't come home. Why they left you out at Laurel Hill, when you were not dead, as dear little Eda was."
The mother struck her hands together, and again looked upwards. Tears gushed from her eyes and fell over her face.
"What could she have meant by that?" asked Mrs. Waverly, wonderingly.
"At Laurel Hill! Strange that such a thought should have come into her mind!"
"She was at the cemetery when you were there. I have learned as much," said Alice.
"She was!"
"Yes."
"Alice!"
"I have gathered this from questioning Ada."
"Can it indeed be!" murmured the poor woman, as her eyes to the floor.
"Then Mr. Waverly knows that I am here?" she said, looking up again.
"I would think so."
"Did Ada remember me when I came to her in the street?"
"Yes."
"She did! And has she spoken of that circumstance?"
"Yes."
Here was a pause.
"Do you think she would go with me, willingly, if I were to get her in my possession?"
"I do."
"And Herbert?"
"I cannot speak for him."
"For some time the mother mused in silence. Then she said,
"Alice, when am I to see my children?"
To this the girl made no answer.
"Will you not bring them here tomorrow?"
"Herbert is going to spend the afternoon at Mrs. Greens."
"Ada remains at home?"
"Yes."
"Did you take the children out today?"
"Yes."
"And you will walk out with Ada tomorrow?"
"If nothing should prevent it."
"Then what is to hinder you from bringing her to see me?" Alice mused for some time, while the eyes of Mrs. Waverly were fixed intently upon her face. "What is to hinder?" she repeated.
"Nothing," said the girl at length, breathing freely as she spoke. "I will bring Ada, unless something occurs to prevent our coming out."
A joyful light flashed into the mother's face at these words, and she caught the hand of Alice, and pressed it to her lips, fervently.
For an hour the girl remained, during all of which time, she was in earnest conversation with Mrs. Waverly.
"You will not forget your promise," said the latter, as she was about leaving to return to her new home.
"O, no, you may depend on me. If I walk out with Ada tomorrow, I will bring her to see you. Good night!" she added, in a cheerful voice, and then passed from the room.
Back to The Divorced Wife